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by acrosticacrumpet



Category: Free!, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!, Riddle-Master Trilogy - Patricia A. McKillip, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, I CAN'T WRITE FOR SPN YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, M/M, Not a Crossover, do not take this to mean that i ship the thing, i may not ship the thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrosticacrumpet/pseuds/acrosticacrumpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>what the title says. so far feat. harry potter (harry/draco, draco/hermione, seamus/dean), supernatural (sam/gabriel, dean/castiel), riddle-master (morgon/raederle), free! (gou + cameos, makoharu + whale), and oofuri (baseball dorks plus a cold).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. human i'm trying to come clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which three people on the run discover a fellow fugitive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at my creative titles
> 
> wow

 

When they find him, there’s more blood on him than there is in his body.

 

“It had to be Malfoy,” Ron says, in a voice that announces that he is done with life, the universe and everything, but even he helps out with Hermione’s frantic attempts at first-aid with the kind of concentration that Professor McGonagall never saw from him. She’s digging books out of her back and flicking through them, swiftly and with increasing desperation, casting spell after spell, while Ron works diligently beside her and Harry sits helplessly by their half-conscious patient, trying to think of something comforting to say.

 

“How did this happen?” he asks eventually of the bedraggled and thoroughly wretched-looking Malfoy.

 

Malfoy smiles mirthlessly. “The Dark Lord wanted to know where you were.” Harry flinches. “He was not best pleased when he discovered my parents had no idea.”

 

“So why are you –”

 

“You’re not the only one who can be stupid and reckless, Potter,” Malfoy snarls through gritted teeth, and his sneer as he says the last part is the most self-deprecating expression Harry has ever seen on him.

 

The thought that Malfoy got seriously hurt trying to protect his parents is not a comfortable one.

 

Eventually Hermione declares that she’s done as much as she can for the now-unconscious Malfoy. “One of us should probably sit with him during the night, though,” she concludes. “Just to make sure he’s all right.”

 

“What on earth do you think is going to happen to him during the night?” Ron demands.

 

“ _I don’t know!_ ” Hermione snaps. “I am not a _medical encyclopaedia_ , Ronald, I am a teenager trying to make sure that one of her classmates doesn’t _die_!”

 

Ron wisely backs off. “You’re probably right,” he allows. “One of us should stay with him, to keep an eye on him if nothing else.”

 

“Ron Weasley, if you honestly think at this point that he did this on purpose to somehow use it against us –”

 

“I wasn’t going to suggest that!” Ron protests, and Harry’s pretty sure he’s telling the truth. “It’s just, you know, I wouldn’t put it past You-Know-Who to do this to him and send him here deliberately, like a trap or something.”

 

Hermione sighs. “It’s horrible to think that that’s actually quite likely,” she says. She sounds absolutely exhausted. “I’ll take first watch.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Of all the uncomfortable things that have ever happened to Harry, sitting next to an unconscious Malfoy while Hermione sleeps and Ron keeps watch outside the tent has to be ranked pretty high. It’s unsettling to see his one-time enemy so – he really doesn’t want to use this word but it’s the only one that fits – _vulnerable._

 

Of course, then Malfoy starts twitching and moving around in his sleep, and everything is suddenly even more awkward than it was before.

 

Now he’s making tiny, pained noises. And he’s – oh God, he’s whispering something.

 

He’s whispering _No_ like he’s in pain.

 

_Shit_.

 

Hermione would probably tell him not to do this, Harry reflects, as he attempts to gently shake Malfoy awake. She’d probably say Malfoy needs rest after everything that’s happened to him, and that Harry shouldn’t try to wake him up when he’s so badly injured.

 

Harry does not, at this point, particularly care what Hermione would say.

 

“Malfoy,” he hisses, “ _wake up_.”

 

Ice-grey eyes stare blearily up at him, and Malfoy blinks. “What d’you want, Potter?” he groans, word slightly slurred.

 

_Why do I bother trying to be nice to him again,_ Harry thinks grumpily (hey, he’s sleep-deprived), but can’t bring himself to regret it. “You – looked like you were having a nightmare,” he says uncomfortably.

 

He looks back at Malfoy only to see that his ex-nemesis looks, if possible, even more uncomfortable than he does. And Harry knows that look: it’s the same one he wore during fifth year, after every time he woke up breathing hard and sweating and desperately trying to remind himself that he wasn’t in that graveyard anymore and Cedric wasn’t dying right in front of his eyes –

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Malfoy grits out.

 

Harry is too tired – and too much reminded of himself – to argue with him. “Malfoy,” he says patiently, “in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve had the Cruciatus Curse used on me before. I know what it looks like when someone’s reliving it.”

 

Malfoy flinches.

 

“Oh, for _God’s sake_ , Malfoy,” Harry snaps, finding himself sounding uncannily like Hermione, “don’t tell me you’re embarrassed about _being Crucio’d_.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot, Potter,” Malfoy retorts, “of course I’m not.” He sounds a little more like his former self. Harry is pretty sure that shouldn’t be as reassuring as it is.

 

They don’t speak any more after that. Harry sits there and tries not to think about anything that’s just happened, while Malfoy lies next to him attempting to sleep and failing miserably. The sight is almost pitiful, except that it’s hard to use the word pitiful about Malfoy. He seems to resist it.

 

Somehow, at some point during the night, Harry finds himself stroking Malfoy’s hair. He hears Malfoy’s breath hitch, but the other boy (is he really a boy anymore?) says nothing, a clear sign that he’s been worse affected than he pretends. Harry should probably feel embarrassed, but he’s too tired for that.

 

He can feel it as Malfoy slowly starts to relax; he can feel it as Malfoy finally drops off into mercifully dreamless sleep.  In sleep he looks uncharacteristically peaceful, the constant tension that Harry hadn’t even realised was there finally gone. Harry feels an odd, sad smile creep onto his face. He does not remove his hand from Malfoy’s hair.

 

Ron comes into the tent to take over from Harry and, in an unexpected display of tact, says nothing. 


	2. sweep the streets i used to own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione Granger meets an old acquaintance and is pleasantly surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you impressed by my creative titles yet

 

Hermione Granger is not in the best of moods.

 

She’s had an exhausting week and is awake only due to having drunk possibly lethal amounts of coffee. All her friends are either trying to convince her to get back with Ron – despite the fact that they’re both actually quite relieved to be just friends again and considerably more comfortable with each other than they were when they were going out – or trying to set her up with people they know. To crown it all, she is now being forced to comb through an obscure wizarding law library because apparently wizarding judges prefer precedent to common sense, which means she has to find a precedent in which a witch or wizard actually used their common sense. Hermione has lived in the wizarding world long enough to know that this is an impossible task.

 

So when she sees Draco Malfoy heading for the very same section she’s in, she does not exactly feel the urge to spontaneously burst into the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel’s _Messiah_.

 

Hermione hasn’t really encountered him much since they both finished school, but Ron’s run into him a couple of times. He seemed rather bemused by how much Malfoy has apparently improved since their schooldays, even going as far as to say that “if I didn’t know him, I’d say he was slowly metamorphosing into a decent human being”, which from Ron, regarding Malfoy, is high praise.

 

His appearance at least has improved. He was always sort of pointy-looking in school, but now his features have settled so that he looks sharp and distinguished. Thankfully, he has forgone a cane or a billowing cloak, instead choosing dark, conservative robes, and thus preventing any unfortunate resemblance to his father. But there’s something else that’s different, too. It takes Hermione a while to realise that it’s the absence of a sneer.

 

They studiously ignore each other, burying themselves in their work. Unfortunately for Hermione, her work is so _irritating_ that eventually the frustration builds to the point where she’s quite willing to risk an awkward situation and talk to the man rather than look at these documents for a second longer.

 

“I hope your research is going better than mine,” she says, turning slightly to face him. “If I see one more record of a case where the law and common sense were at odds and the law won, I’m going to scream.”

 

Malfoy’s answering smile is sardonic, without a trace of arrogance. It’s startlingly attractive. “Much the same here, I’m afraid,” he replies dryly. “What are you researching?”

 

“…Do you know, I can’t remember,” Hermione tells him, taking no care to hide the exasperated weariness in her voice. “Some arcane detail of a bylaw that’s going to solve a case for me. That was the idea, I think. And you?”

 

Malfoy’s face turns almost imperceptibly bitter. “Obscure property laws. I’m trying to get Malfoy Manor out of the Ministry’s filthy paws.”

 

“They confiscated it?” Hermione is angry, but depressingly unsurprised. “Sorry, I’m stating the obvious. I must be more tired than I thought.”

 

Malfoy lets out a quiet, cheerless laugh. “Originally they only confiscated it to go through it and check for Dark objects and curses. Then they just never got around to giving it back.”

 

From living through the last few years of wizarding law and politics, Hermione knows that letting her outrage show in her voice will only make her seem naïve. Even so… “Every time I think people can’t disappoint me any more than they already have,” she states, voice freezing with anger, “they surpass themselves.”

 

“Don’t act so surprised, Granger,” Malfoy drawls, horribly reminiscent of his adolescent self. “You know what the Ministry’s like. You saw how easy it was for things to just… slip through the cracks.” His studied indifference cracks for a moment, there, revealing a flash of what might be pain.

 

“We’re supposed to be trying to do better, now,” Hermione retorts. “That was the point.”

 

Malfoy shrugs. “It’s not as if I’m homeless: Malfoy Manor wasn’t the only property we owned. I’d just like to have it back.”

 

“I can imagine you’d be homesick for it,” Hermione offers.

 

Malfoy turns a look of biting scorn on her. “Yes, Granger, I really want to take up residence in the house where my family lived in fear of the Dark Lord for a year!”

 

Hermione flinches. “Sorry,” she murmurs.

 

She sees Malfoy’s shoulders go down, and for a moment he looks infinitely tired. “No, I apologize,” he says softly. “That was – unkind of me.”

 

Hearing Draco Malfoy apologize to her and mean it is surreal. “It’s all right,” Hermione tells him, and goes on hesitantly: “If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem rather different.”

 

“Court-mandated therapy,” Malfoy informs her. “It works wonders.” The note of dark humour in his voice is entirely new. “I still want the Manor back, though.”

 

Hermione is about to say that she understands, of course, no matter what happened there it was still his home for seventeen years before that, but he continues before she can speak: “I can’t really explain why, I just – need to own it. So long as I own it, I control what happens there. If I don’t…” His voice turns quiet, introspective, and strangely hollow-sounding. “If I don’t, it’s as if it’s – as if it’s still happening there. All the time. I have to be _sure_ …” He shakes his head as if to clear it of such dark imaginings. “Anyway, it’s been in the family since the Norman Conquest. I will _not_ let my father’s ill-considered alliance with a madman change that.”

 

Hermione can’t help but smile. She looks back down at her own papers: there’s nothing of use here – she’d better try a section dealing with a later period. She packs away her things into the neat, if worn, satchel she carries everywhere, and gets up, stretching to get the stiffness out of her limbs.

 

“Have you tried Calidor the Cunning’s Ownership of Property Act?” she asks, as a parting shot.

 

“Granger,” Malfoy calls after her, “that Act is from 1629!”

 

“It’s never been revoked!” she calls back cheerfully, revelling in the way his jaw drops. He really is unfairly attractive. 


	3. awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam Winchester is not having a pleasant time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW JUST LOOK AT HOW CREATIVE THESE TITLES ARE GETTING

 

Sam Winchester wakes up shaking and sweating with the echo of a scream dying in his mouth. His eyes dart across the motel room: his brother is sleeping calmly, breathing even. He rolls over and tries, unsuccessfully, to calm down.

 

He knows why he’s having nightmares. He’s been feeling swamped lately, worn out by the constant search for a new hunt, the way some days it feels as he personally is in charge of saving every single monster-threatened person in the US. And it’s hard to have any energy left when you’re at war with yourself: part of him calling itself his conscience (though he’s doubtful) is battling the part of him that becomes more resentful with every hunt. He _does not want_ this lifestyle. _He doesn’t want it_.

 

And yet, if he tries to leave it, he will fall apart.

 

He knows this. He _knows_ this. Sometimes it feels as if his entire life has been a desperate attempt to not know this. In his darkest hours there is a thought that makes Sam Winchester feel as if he will never be happy again, and it is the thought that he was made for this and nothing but this, that he _can’t_ live any other life because he is not made for it. That he will never be able to do anything but hunt.

 

Hunting, he thinks sometimes, is like war: a place for angry young men to hurt and get hurt. By the time they get old, all they want is peace, but peace will never come. He and Dean have been hunting since their teens. By this age he –

 

he doesn’t want to think it he can’t think it he mustn’t think it –

 

he and Jess might have had kids.

 

This latest batch of nightmares has been centred around the endless Tuesdays, a familiar theme. If this goes on much longer, Sam thinks darkly, he won’t be able to tell the difference between sleeping and waking and he’ll live in fear that Dean’s going to die, any minute, any minute now – (Because that’s such a change from the usual order of things, part of him mutters.)

 

He rubs at his wet eyes and pulls the blankets over his head.

 

* * *

 

Sam Winchester is dreaming, but that doesn’t make dying any less painful.

 

It’s one of the Tuesday nightmares again, and today’s death was a madman with a gun in the parking lot. And it’s worse than usual. This time Sam got shot, and he’s lying there watching Dean start to die because, maddened with grief, he charged the gunman who killed Sam.

 

There isn’t much that’s more painful than dying ( _oh god oh god oh god it hurts how can it hurt this much oh god_ ) but seeing your brother die because of you probably counts.

 

He lies there gasping for breaths that will do him no good, and feels the blood hot and _hurting_ , the terrifying sharp ache of the wound, this is a hurt beyond tears and _oh god oh god oh god oh god_ it hurts it hurts it h u r t s

 

 _Dean_ –

 

he can barely think for hurting –

 

he can’t think at all –

 

 _oh god oh god oh god it hurts so much_ –

 

he’s dying and Dean’s dying and _oh god it H U R T S_ –

 

And then, suddenly, Gabriel is there hanging over him, blurred so his skin seems luminous and his eyes burn pure gold, and Sam can’t even muster the energy to hate him, it hurts so much.

 

“What are you – ?” he manages to gasp out, voice wet and shaking.

 

“Shut up,” the Trickster mutters, “this is irritating enough as it is” – his hand is moving, he’s coming closer –

 

“N-No –”

 

“Shh,” he hears that voice murmur, and the hand descends to cup his face and _oh god it hurts it hurts it hurts_.

 

He thinks he hears a voice say, “I haven’t done this in a few centuries,” and then everything goes bright white and he feels a relief that goes beyond euphoria and out the other side and _nothing hurts any more_.

 

For a moment, lips cover his.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sam Winchester wakes up, and _breathes._

 


	4. o fortuna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Raederle, a young woman from An, meets a stranger at the train station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wait is that an actual creative title because wow

 

The man had to be about her age. His hair fell messily about his face, and he stood as if he were terribly tired, fingers clutching a worn old suitcase. There was something terrifyingly familiar about the sharp lines of his face, exaggerated by the shadows under his eyes: Raederle shivered. He was standing in front of the ticket machine as if unable to think of what to do next.

 

Moved by some nameless impulse, Raederle stepped forward. “Can I help?” she said quietly.

 

The man’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “Unless you’re an expert on how to coax unruly ticket machines into behaving, I doubt it, I’m afraid,” he replied. Raederle’s hunch was confirmed: his voice betrayed his exhaustion as clearly as his posture did.

 

Raederle smiled. “That’s not one of my skills, but I might still be able to help,” she said. “Can I ask what the problem is?”

 

“It won’t take notes.” There was a sharp note of irritation in the man’s voice. Some half-forgotten instinct in Raederle told her it would never have been present had he not been so very tired. “I don’t have any change, and everywhere is shut. God – I’m sorry to snap. It’s been a long day.”

 

Raederle started digging around in her wallet. “How much do you need? I’ve got some.” He named an amount. Raederle’s fingers scrabbled for stray coins. Eventually she managed to dig up enough – luckily she had enough credit on her chipcard to pay for herself. “Here.”

 

The man’s face slackened in relief. “ _Thank_ you,” he said, and it sounded heartfelt. “Here, let me” – he was fumbling around, pulling out a note, and Raederle shook her head emphatically. “I can’t just let you pay for me –”

 

“That’s far too much,” Raederle protested. “It wasn’t that much. _No_ –” she had to add, firmly: he was still trying, looking for a note of lesser value in the hope she might accept it. “You can pay me back at the other end, there’s bound to be a shop open at the station.”

 

“You don’t even know which station I’m bound for.” He was close to giving up, she could tell.

 

“I take this train all the time,” Raederle told him. “You told me how much you needed: you must be going to Caithnard. So am I.”

 

He did give up then, and went over to the machine to put the change on his chipcard. Raederle, not quite knowing why, stood by the gate into the station waiting for him.

 

They were lucky – he came through the gate just as the train was arriving. By unspoken mutual agreement, they found themselves taking seats next to each other. “So,” Raederle asked, once the train was moving and they’d both relaxed a bit, rocked by the constant regular judder of the train, the distant lights flashing past against the night sky, “what brings you to Caithnard?”

 

“I just came from there, actually,” he said ruefully. “I was supposed to be coming home for Midwinter, but my car broke down. They tell me the garage won’t even be open until Monday – Tristan is going to _kill_ me. Eliard will probably help. My brother and sister,” he added, in answer to Raederle’s questioning look.

 

“What are you going to do now?” Raederle said, wincing sympathetically. Being stuck away from one’s family at Midwinter had to be hard, especially when it came unexpectedly.

 

The man shrugged. “See if the university will let me stay for the night. Find a hotel. Try to impose on a friend.” The lack of concern in his voice wasn’t from indifference, but from just being too tired to care right now. Raederle had watched him sink down into the seat as if he intended never to get up again. “I could try Rood… heaven only knows which tavern he’s in, at this hour,” he murmured in an undertone.

 

Raederle started, disconcerted. “Rood? Not –” It couldn’t be. “I have a brother called Rood at the university.”

 

The man stared at her for a moment. “Dry sense of humour, sharp wit, drinks too much?” She nodded. “Yes, I know him –” His eyes lingered on her for a moment, his face showing something nameless, something not quite hunger. “Then you must be Raederle. I’m Morgon.”

 

“Morgon…” The name came back to her. “Not the riddling prodigy of Hed?” On hearing the title, a smile broke over his face. Raederle found herself suddenly, delightedly charmed by it. “That’s what he calls you in his letters,” she explained.

 

He laughed softly. “He would. I’m no prodigy: I just have a knack for riddling, and a bad habit of wanting to know the answers to things. Tristan and Eliard are always telling me it’s going to get me in trouble one of these days.”

 

With that connection established, the conversation flowed easily. They talked of everything and nothing as hills and rivers lit only by the stars and distant streetlights – it was a new moon – came rushing past. It could have been the late hour, or the circumstances in which they’d met, or the fact they both knew Rood: whatever the reason, Raederle found herself talking more to Morgon during the forty-minute train journey than she had to all her friends combined over the past few days. Every now and then one of them would come out with something completely unexpected and very private, something fragile and secret. It didn’t seem to be difficult. Raederle let her head fall back against the seat, and smiled.

 

Suddenly the train jolted to an abrupt stop. Raederle felt herself jump a little, and saw –

 

Saw Morgon’s fingers blur, for a moment, into translucent wind.

 

Their eyes met. Morgon’s face was even paler now than it had been when they met, his eyes wide with panic. She could see the swearword forming on his lips –

 

“It’s all right,” she said, “look, I’m the same,” and felt the rich mass of her red hair, spilling down her back, flicker into pure flame. 


	5. you find your way back down (and i'll keep the area clear)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a certain angel is on his last legs, and I really can't write for SPN to save my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said I couldn't write for SPN to save my life, I MEANT IT. You have been warned.
> 
> Riddled with plot-holes. Takes place around Season 8 sometime? I don't even know. Possibly the only genuinely fluffy thing I have ever written. Until I finish that SakuHina fic.
> 
> (Title from Imogen Heap's "Clear The Area".)

 

You feel tired. You feel as if someone could shake you and you’d shatter, your pieces scattered on the wind – you feel like there’s not enough left of you to move. To live. You keep moving because there’s nothing else you can do.

 

You think of him because you can’t help it, and you’re tired enough that the thought takes you there, blurring you through the fragile laws of this world. Distance doesn’t really mean anything, after all. You close your eyes. Open them again. What’s the difference, anyway?

 

Warm air against your skin, the sound of a pot boiling on the hob. Not a sound you know well. You’ve heard it enough times, but not with these ears, not while you were in this cage of sensations. Scent, unfamiliar, rich. Hands on your shoulders. Your name in his voice, and you sag against him, all your dredged-up strength yielding to that one sound.

 

A laugh, almost gentle in the rough timbre of his voice. His hands are still there, moving you carefully. You don’t fight them. This, this is one of the things you’ve missed the most, there’s no other sensation like it. You’ve never told him how intense a sense of touch is for someone who hasn’t always had it. You feel something soft beneath you and realise he’s manoeuvred you into a chair, or something similar. You should be – should be talking, telling him what’s happening, or – doing _something_ – but you don’t. You sit in the chair with your eyes closed and don’t move, drinking in the sound of cooking, the feel of the chair beneath you. The feeling of not having to move.

 

You don’t have a sense of time: it could be hours that you sit there, it could be minutes. At some point he wanders back into the room, his footsteps softened by lack of shoes. Unusual for him. You feel a hand in your hair – casual treasured touch – and you’re so tired, you lean into it easily. You hear a huff of breath, not quite surprised. He wanders out again. You sit.

 

 _Hey_. Hands again, prompting you to get up, bringing you over to a table. There’s food on it. A burger. You wonder if he remembered that you like these. No reason he should. He sits you down, pushes it towards you. You eat slowly. At some point you remember that he should be eating too, and say as much: he laughs again, softly. You’re not entirely sure how to take that. It sounded as if there was something sad mixed in with the mirth. The food is hot, but more than that, when you eat it you feel the kindling of some kind of slow warmth, right down deep, a warmth that defies rationality. It makes no sense. (Many things don’t. You’ve kind of given up on trying to get them to do so.)

 

His hands, moving you again. Exhausted, almost drunk on that slow warmth, you lean on him. He huffs out another breath. Brings you along – out of this room – into another. To be honest you’re not really sure: when you get tired distance and physicality tend to lose their meaning and different spaces blur into each other. Pushes you down, gently, onto something soft. A bed? A bed.

 

A murmur, a goodnight. You think maybe you should remind him that you’re not capable of sleep, but your eyes close and you spend the next several hours lying there anyway. It feels so good to lie on something soft in the dark and not move or speak or worry. You’re so tired, and somehow his presence has drained all the worry out of you. You let your limbs lie still as tree roots, like you could sink down into the bed and stay rooted there forever.

 

At some point, you feel lips on your forehead. Stubble. A murmur, something you could hear if you put your mind to it, but you’re too tired. Fingers running through your hair again. Then he’s gone. Your thoughts slow down: you rest on that quiet level beneath words or emotions.

 

It’s good to be here.


	6. we're all in this together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Matsuoka Gou has a problem, a recalcitrant brother, and a not-quite-almost-date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very fudged request that i finished ridiculously late but here it is
> 
> DID I USE A HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL SONG AS A TITLE? HECK YEAH I DID

 

Matsuoka Gou (frustratingly, she can’t help but refer to herself that way, despite all her efforts to get other people to call her _Kou_ ) is in a bit of a predicament.

 

She would like to be able to blame Mikoshiba for this, but to be fair to him, he really didn’t do anything except ask her on a not-quite-almost-date. A not-quite-almost-date _swimming_. It’s undeniably an appealing concept – Gou has never had any compunctions about watching an attractive boy use the very fine set of muscles he possesses – except for how it contains the implicit assumption that she’s going to swim too.

 

Gou is not a swimmer. She is not, in fact, any kind of athlete, for all the research she’s done on training regimens for competitive swimmers. And while she has pretty much thrown shame out of the window when it comes to admiring muscles, she is still capable of being embarrassed, and she’s pretty sure her – by comparison, feeble – attempts at swimming are going to embarrass her in front of the captain of a top high school swim team.

 

One would _think_ (in Gou’s head, the words are tinged with acid) that having a brother on that very same swim team, a brother with Olympic dreams and the skill to back them up, would provide an obvious solution. One would think that, if one didn’t know Rin. As it is, she has asked him once only to be turned down, and then again only to be turned down _again_ when he found out the reason she was suddenly so eager to get swimming tips. A brother who barely _talks_ to his little sister, Gou thinks irritably, has absolutely no right to get up in arms about her possibly-not-quite-maybe-almost-dating someone.

 

So. She didn’t get this far as manager of a swim team without the ability to make backup plans. Time for Plan B: the Iwatobi boys.

 

* * *

 

She decides to try Rei first, on the grounds that a) she can’t very well embarrass herself in front of someone who only recently learned to swim himself and b) out of the whole club he might be the only one she could successfully intimidate into silence. This plan sounds good until they actually start the lesson, at which point she remembers that Rei only swims butterfly, and that only reasonably well. (Not to minimise his efforts, but – well, Rin _is_ her brother, and it’s not as if anyone who hasn’t been swimming long can measure up to _that_.)

 

Rei clearly intends to make up for the gaps in his experience with theory: he comes to the session loaded down with notes. Gou, in the pool, paddles on determinedly. She tries to absorb his lecture at the same time, but somehow she can’t seem to relate the painstakingly precise phrasing and technical vocabulary to the sheer physicality of swimming, her own neglected muscles working beneath the skin, cutting (or perhaps slowly chiselling) through the water. Besides, it’s difficult to swim and listen simultaneously.

 

“Gou-san, please pay attention,” Rei says, respectfully but with a rather reproachful note in his voice, the third time Gou looks like she’s falling asleep in the water.

 

Gou shakes her head. “Sorry, Rei-kun,” she says, but there’s an unspoken understanding between them that this isn’t working.

 

* * *

 

Maybe she shouldn’t have relied on Rei’s discretion, or maybe Nagisa is just that good at ferreting things out, because he volunteers to help next. Gou accepts rather cautiously.

 

That level of aggressive cheerfulness can’t be human, Gou thinks grumpily, as she paddles along beside her new teacher. Nagisa is clearly enjoying his position of power: he shouts out arbitrary commands, and while some of them make sense, others – like “do a triple somersault!” – are completely outrageous. Also, he splashes her whenever she does something wrong, or refuses to carry out one of his commands, or snaps at him.

 

“Gou-chan, no sassing the teacher!” he shouts gleefully when she rolls her eyes.

 

“Nagisa-kun,” Gou retorts, “firstly, it’s Kou, secondly, _shut up_ ,” and splashes him right back.

 

At that point the lesson dissolves unceremoniously into a splash fight, until Makoto finds them and breaks it up.

 

* * *

 

Of _course_ Makoto, having discovered Gou’s predicament, is quick to offer his help, and Haruka’s as well (evidently without consulting Haruka, who looks somewhat disgruntled). Gou, blushing furiously – there’s no need to be embarrassed around Rei, and she’s never taken Nagisa seriously, but Haruka is the best swimmer she knows besides her brother, and Makoto is not only the club captain but also a marginally functional human being – makes a valiant attempt at swallowing her pride now in order to retain at least some of it on the not-quite-almost-date.

 

Out of everyone so far, Makoto’s tips are the best, and he also seems to have some idea of what “positive reinforcement” means, which is very reassuring when Gou is splashing around in the pool feeling as if she’s making a total fool of herself. Even so, she still feels frustratingly as if she’s only half-understanding the tips, as if her brain needs to reconfigure itself somehow before they’ll make complete sense to her. She grits her teeth and perseveres. Makoto is doing his best to help her, and that means she can’t give up.

 

Nagisa has been known to joke about Makoto being the mother hen of the team, but Gou thinks he’s more of a big brother to them all – she feels a slight pang at that thought, remembering years long past when Rin did brotherly things with her,  and, well, maybe she shouldn’t have got so irritated at his objections to the not-quite-almost-date, maybe it’s a sign of brotherly overprotectiveness coming back, and damn it, _she is having a swimming lesson right now, now is not the time for having melancholy thoughts_.

 

“That’s it, Gou-chan,” Makoto calls over encouragingly, and _damn it all_ , Gou thinks, it is _entirely_ unfair for him to be so transparently devoted to Haruka when he’s so damn cute. “Do you have any tips for Gou-chan, Haru?” he goes on, turning to Haruka.

 

Haruka shrugs. “Trust the water,” he says simply. Gou fights _very hard_ not to glare at him.

 

* * *

 

She sends Makoto and Haruka off with a tired but heartfelt, “Thank you, Makoto-senpai, Haruka-senpai,” but doesn’t leave with them. The not-quite-almost-date is tomorrow, and she wants to get a bit more practice in before she goes,  to boost her confidence if nothing else. She still doesn’t quite feel like she’s got a grip on this whole swimming technique thing.

 

She splashes frantically and very nearly drowns – or at least it feels like it – when she hears a familiar voice say, “Fuck, Gou, what are _you_ doing here?”

 

Gou stares up at her brother, face burning. “I go to school here,” she retorts. “What are _you_ doing here?”

 

“I thought Haru might still be here,” Rin admits, and then, still looking sternly down at her, goes on – evidently not to be put off – “What are you doing in the pool?”

 

“What do people _usually_ do in a pool?” Gou snaps back, falling back on banter. She’s still in awe of her brother’s swimming ability, and that hasn’t changed, even if he is distant with her these days: it’s not exactly comfortable to have him find her trying to practise.

 

Rin’s eyes narrow. “This is about that date with Mikoshiba, isn’t it?” he says, glaring.

 

“Well, it’s not as if I was going to get any tips from _you_ ,” Gou mutters, a little resentfully, and attempts to continue swimming.

 

The next time she looks up, Rin has taken a seat by the pool. “Haru will probably be back here soon, it’s not like he can stay away from water for long,” he explains, in answer to her questioning look. Gou doubts this, but keeps swimming anyway.

 

For a few minutes there is a very awkward silence. Then – “Oh, for God’s sake,” Rin snaps. “I don’t know what that incompetent lot have been telling you, but that is _not_ how you do it. Here –” He starts gesturing impatiently.

 

That’s the point where he seems to completely forget his earlier resolve not to give her any tips, and goes into full-on swim coach mode, instead. Rin has always had a gift for saying exactly the right thing to make someone understand, at least when it comes to swimming. His comments tend to be on the brief side, but they’re succinct, not vague, and it isn’t long before Gou begins to get what he means and finds herself swimming faster, more cleanly. It feels… satisfying.

 

“Thank you, onii-chan,” she says as they leave, beaming at him, and represses the urge to laugh when he scowls in response. It’s been a while since they spent time together like this. Maybe the not-quite-almost-date will be good for more than one thing.

 

* * *

 

Next day, when Gou gets in the water with Mikoshiba, she feels a sudden surge of nerves, and almost wants to get straight back out again, but –

 

But Rei and Nagisa and Makoto and Haruka, and _Rin_ , they all helped her with this, they all backed her up, and she’s got this far, and suddenly the nerves feel a little less urgent. Instead of getting out of the pool, she starts swimming.

 

She starts swimming, and feels her muscles working, feels her limbs moving just the way she wants them to, and it’s incredibly satisfying. Fragments of Rei’s lecture come back to her, albeit more his fascinated tone than the exact words, and her mouth breaks into a smile as she remembers Nagisa’s open joy in the water, and Makoto’s faith in her, in her ability to do this – she speeds up a little, and the feeling of water against her skin and all around her is a challenge and a pleasure, and she feels like she understands Haruka’s words a little better now. _Trust the water_. She keeps moving, remembering Rin’s words (remembering the affection in them, grudging only at first), and cuts through the water cleanly, easily.

 

“Gou-kun, you’re not half bad,” Mikoshiba says, admiration in his eyes, and Gou beams at him, and watches him turn almost as red as his hair.


	7. oh you fill my lungs with sweetness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Abe Takaya has a bad cold, and an unlikely comfort presents itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy SHIT this took a month to write i am ASHAMED. why brain. why do you fight me every step of the way on these things
> 
> leaving that aside these two dorks were so much fun to write
> 
> title from "bloom" by the paper kites. many thanks to my friend eli for introducing me to this cute song and also to this show!!

 

Takaya is displeased.

 

Upon waking up this morning, he groaned into his pillow, heard the groan come out hoarse and croaky, and registered the following things: his head felt as if someone had stuffed it with cotton wool as he slept (and was ridiculously heavy); there was a furry, scratchy feeling in his throat, and it hurt all out of proportion when he swallowed; and his nose was running something awful to the point that he felt barely able to breathe. Then he thought, _oh, fuck_.

 

This has not exactly put him in a pleasant mood. His mother immediately pronounces him unfit for school and insists he stay home. Takaya is too weak to argue back, and the prospect of school is not an appealing one in any case, but he does at least retain enough willpower to maintain that he calls Hanai himself. Having to hear his _mother_ calling to let the team know he couldn’t make it to baseball practice would be adding insult to injury.

 

His cold must show in his voice, because Hanai sounds vaguely – and somewhat uncomfortably – sympathetic, wishing Takaya well before he hangs up. For some reason this makes Takaya’s mood worse. Hanai could at least have made a cursory push to get him to come to practice.

 

He’s in no state to get out of bed: his whole body feels weak and shaky, and when he does try to stand up he finds himself feeling rather lightheaded. Instead he spends the morning in an uncomfortable doze, drifting in and out of sleep, occasionally tossing and turning in the search for a position that allows minimal discomfort. He’s so out of it that the stray thoughts that pass through his mind grow and turn into waking dreams. (One particularly surreal one features a Mihashi who has somehow turned into an actual, honest-to-God fluffy chick – Takaya somehow doesn’t question this within the dream – and has to be fed worms for the good of the team. Takaya wakes up with chick-Mihashi’s pitiful cheeping still echoing in his ears.)

 

He gets a short respite from the dozing when his mother brings him some lunch, which he unfortunately feels too ill to appreciate. He eats it mechanically, trying to focus on the flavours and textures and scents and _anything other than this goddamn cold_ , but as soon as he’s finished it, it’s back to being either awake and miserable or asleep and under attack by weird dreams. His head hurts.

 

A little later in the afternoon, he manages to make it downstairs to the living room, to watch TV. This makes it slightly easier to keep his eyes open. When the sports news comes on he attempts to push himself into paying attention, but only succeeds in triggering more attacks of dozing, in which dreams and reality blend disconcertingly. It’s not easy to focus on what they’re saying about the famous pitcher on the screen when you’re blearily wondering, _didn’t he just turn into a giant robot dragon and burn down the stadium?_.

 

He is abruptly woken – from a dream in which the news presenter on the screen is dressed up like Doraemon and seems to find nothing odd about this – by the sound of the doorbell ringing. A few minutes later, the door of the living room opens and _Mihashi_ , of all people, wobbling and shuffling and struggling with the (relatively small) pile of papers he’s carrying, makes his way in. Takaya stares: Mihashi cowers a little.

 

Takaya is still struggling to find the least aggressive way possible of saying _what the fuck are you doing here_ when Mihashi, after a few false starts, his eyes large and round and rather fearful, manages to choke out, “The t-team heard – th-that Abe-kun – Abe-kun w-was ill! S-Sent me to – to bring – Abe-kun’s – homework!” He shoves the pile of papers towards Takaya, and they inevitably spill onto the floor. Takaya watches with a strange kind of fascination as Mihashi scrambles to pick them up. 

 

His mood is growing worse in response to Mihashi’s obvious nervousness. He has the sinking feeling that the rest of the team bullied Mihashi into coming here because none of _them_ wanted to see how much grumpier Takaya could get with a cold.

 

In a kind of vicious cycle, Mihashi only grows more nervous upon seeing Takaya’s glare. “A-Abe-kun –” he begins, and then, after a series of stuttering breaths, finally continues: “Abe-kun – i-is – all right?”

 

“Obviously I’m not!” Takaya snaps, and immediately feels bad about it when he sees Mihashi wilt. God, even his _hair_ seems to sink down. He looks like he’s about ready to cry. “I will be soon,” Takaya says, trying to sound reassuring. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

 

Mihashi, still trembling but looking marginally less terrified, reaches into a pocket and retrieves a small packet that sounds as if it’s filled with pills. The writing on it is completely illegible. He mumbles something about someone giving it to him to give to Takaya – Takaya catches that much, but doesn’t manage to make out the name of the person. He looks suspiciously at the box. Maybe it was Momokan. Or Shiga-sensei, since he seems to know so much about health. Or maybe Tajima, it seems dodgy enough for him.

 

Mihashi mumbles again, and this time Takaya gets enough to understand that these ‘herbal pills’ are supposed to make him feel better. By means of enthusiastic, if ambiguous, gestures, Mihashi succeeds in getting across a fervent desire for Takaya to take one. Takaya isn’t entirely sure he _wants_ to take one – especially not if Tajima’s been near them, God forbid (‘herbal pills’ his ass, illegal drugs more like) – but under Mihashi’s gaze he puts one in his mouth and swallows it. God. Clearly he’s getting soft.

 

It actually does help a bit, to his surprise: his head clears somewhat and his throat feels a little less raw. Mihashi, beside him, appears to be standing still, but a closer look reveals that he’s actually shaking quite a bit, as if with restrained energy. In Takaya’s experience this means that he wants to do or say something, but is too nervous to actually do so, so Takaya makes a vaguely encouraging noise at him (although his voice is so hoarse that it doesn’t come out at all the way he intends).

 

Mihashi takes a hesitant step forwards. “I th-thought – Abe-kun – pillows –” His hands twitch towards the pillows Takaya’s mother put behind Takaya to prop him up. Takaya isn’t quite sure what Mihashi wants, but he can’t think what harm Mihashi could possibly do with pillows. (Besides, he – he – _trusts_ Mihashi, trusts his intent, at least, if not his understanding.) He nods to indicate his approval. Mihashi immediately takes the pillows away, and Takaya’s jaw drops indignantly, but before he can say anything he realises that Mihashi is… plumping them up?

 

Mihashi is shaking again. Takaya makes a real effort to tone down the whole indignant glaring thing.

 

His pillows are replaced: Mihashi’s efforts have made a surprising amount of difference. Takaya is feeling too awful to attempt a real smile, but he manages a tired grin and watches as Mihashi quakes and makes small incoherent noises of happiness. Always like this, even when he’s happy… The cold has to be messing with Takaya’s brain, because there’s something indescribably reassuring about having Mihashi here, next to him. It’s probably just that Mihashi’s pathetic spluttering and general weirdness is familiar. And a good distraction from the cold. Or he’s just got used to being worried whenever Mihashi’s not around, in case Mihashi is doing something stupid without him there to stop it. Yeah. Something like that.

 

“Hey,” Takaya says, awkwardly, and Mihashi jumps. Takaya suddenly realises that he’s not actually sure what he wants to say. “Do you… maybe want to watch TV?” He gestures rather redundantly towards the TV, which is still on.

 

Mihashi makes even _more_ incoherent happy noises, louder than before, and looks like he’s about to shake out of his skin. He nods enthusiastically and takes a seat next to Takaya. Takaya turns his face away to hide the undoubtedly sappy smile that’s forming.

 

He still doesn’t have much success in actually watching the sports news, his brain too fogged up and tired, but even so he’s far from the uncomfortable doze of before. The whole room feels pleasantly warm, and the awful inexorable lethargy has turned to a gentle drowsiness that just makes everything feel a bit blurry, a little out of focus. It’s… nice. Takaya lies there and lets the indistinct sounds of the TV wash over him, lets his awareness of Mihashi’s endlessly fidgeting presence (dear God, will he ever learn to sit still?) relax him, ease all the tension out of his limbs.

 

He surfaces from this gentle, warm atmosphere just long enough to realise that it’s getting dark, and that his mother is kindly but firmly shooing Mihashi out of the door, since it’ll soon be too late for him to cycle back safely. Takaya is half-asleep already. He will later blame this for how he raises his head from the pillows and murmurs, slurred and sleepy, to Mihashi, “Thank you.”

 

(He’s almost too sleepy to see Mihashi’s immediate, flustered reaction, but not quite. Not quite too sleepy to see the trademark wobbly smile form on that ever-nervous face. Takaya closes his eyes, happily, and sleeps.)

 


	8. and his wonders in the deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beached whale isn't the only sea-creature far from home, and Makoto keeps pouring on water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have descended back into MAKOHARU HELL
> 
> title from psalm 107; i debated using john masefield's "sea fever" and calling it "a sweet dream (when the long trick's over)" but i'm kinda into psalm 107 right now because of sumsion's "they that go down to the sea in ships" and my st brendan essay for insular latin
> 
> disclaimer: i know very little about rescuing beached whales

 

As soon as they see the whale, the shore seems to narrow to it so that it becomes the only thing they can see.

 

“It’s a melon-headed whale,” Rei says almost immediately, precise as ever, even if his voice is shaking slightly. “Technically a dolphin. They tend to prefer deep waters, they – shouldn’t be anywhere _near_ a beach.”

 

Makoto looks to Haru, expecting his eyes to be on the whale, but Haru is almost knee-deep in the sea, returning with a bucketful, careful not to spill it. The strain stands out in his arms. _Of course. Of course Haru would know what it needs the most._

Haru is careful about pouring the water. “Not on the blowhole,” he says, very simply.

 

“Nagisa,” Makoto says, “more buckets. Rei, call help.”

 

For once saying nothing, Nagisa snaps out a salute and speeds across the sand at a frantic pace; Rei is on the phone in seconds, using a combination of his Detailed Explanation voice and his I Am An Adult voice, Makoto thinks with a kind of very distant amusement, as he carries the bucket back again, refilled.

 

Haru takes it from him and pours without looking at him, eyes on the whale. Since Makoto took over bucket-carrying duties Haru has not wanted to leave its side. His eyes are – he looks quiet, not restless, but his eyes are fierce and implacable as the tide.

 

Bucket. Pour. Bucket. Makoto can’t tell if his arms really don’t ache, or if he just doesn’t notice, vision and heartbeat and breathing narrowed to the wet thing on the sand. Pour. Bucket.

 

Nagisa returns with a tremendous rattle of buckets and as many people as there were doors he could bang on: the whale soon does not lack water. Makoto watches something in the lines of Haru’s face relax, a little. He thinks the desperate need for water, the sensation of being stranded in a place where you were not made to live, might be something that echoes with Haru, and frightens him.

 

As he takes an empty bucket, he lays a quick hand on Haru’s shoulder, presses his mouth to Haru’s forehead. Haru’s eyes widen, a little, the lines around them softening. His mouth quirks.

 

Makoto goes to get more water, fighting back a blush. It’s hard to remember that he can do this, now – there is nothing unnamed, hanging in the air between them, not any more. Every casual gesture that has lain restless in his arms and hands and lips is allowed now. Haru welcomes it like water.

 

Bucket. Pour. Bucket. Pour. Bucket. Pour. The whale heaves. Haru’s eyes are fathomless as the sea. Bucket. Pour. There’s a kind of cold, constant thrumming, not quite adrenaline: the only things under the grey sky are Haru and the whale, almost one and the same. The only things are the bucket and the seawater. Bucket. Pour.

 

It feels like an age, but it isn’t long until Coach Sasabe – whom Rei, in an inspired move, had called just before calling the lifeguards – arrives with a truck and a padded sling. God only knows where he got them: Makoto isn’t inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

“Not my first whale rescue,” Sasabe says cryptically. 

 

It takes all of them there with towels and buckets of water – always more water – and some metal poles and a tarpaulin, and Makoto’s heart in his mouth, trembling like the shining skin of the whale, but they manage to lift it and carry it to the truck. Some of them, Nagisa especially, dart back and forth from the makeshift stretcher to the sea to get more water. Little tributaries of the whale-road.

 

Haru immediately takes his place by the whale, in the back, so Makoto stays with him while Nagisa and Rei pile into the front with Sasabe. Silently, Makoto and Haru take up the task of keeping the whale wet, Haru pouring while Makoto passes him buckets. It gets to the point where the rhythm of taking the bucket and passing it feels almost as instinctive as the rhythm of his heartbeat. Makoto looks at Haru, intent upon the whale, and thinks it’s no wonder that the whale is so docile, even beached. It’s not alone.

 

Once they reach the harbour it’s another gut-clenching transition, carrying the trembling body of the whale onto Sasabe’s boat, refilling the buckets. Then the boat is off with a kick, and it starts to rain, mingling with the spray. Makoto lifts his head to the wind for a moment, breathes out.

 

So strange, to think how all the hope of your life can be bound to another life, all of a sudden.

 

At last they get into deep enough water that they can release the whale, and it’s another transition that has Makoto’s heart in his mouth, but they get it safely out and it seems to swim away gladly enough. Haru’s eyes follow it.

 

“Haru,” Makoto says. “No. You will freeze.”

 

Haru looks at him as if to say _I wasn’t going to jump in after it_ , but Makoto knows him better than that, as Haru well knows.

 

The ride back feels quite weird, now that the whale is safe and all that tension released. Makoto finds himself looking back towards the open sea, wondering where the whale is, how far away it is by now, if it’s OK.

 

“Is it weird,” he says, as Haru comes over to stand next to him, “that I almost feel as if we’ve sent off that whale into the world, like it’s – our child, or something?”

 

“Makoto, you feel that way about everything,” Haru says, and presses closer, leaning into the crook of Makoto’s neck. Makoto closes his eyes and listens for the cries of the seabirds.

 

Somewhere out there, a melon-headed whale is swimming, not dead, home in deep waters again. And here is Haru, close to Makoto and at home, himself. This is good.


	9. unfold (where does this story go?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets commissioned. Seamus gets painted. Feelings happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place in the future, where Dean is a professional wizarding painter and Seamus is a contractor for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes who makes fireworks.
> 
> i have no idea how to write these two at all.
> 
> title from imogen heap's "propeller seeds"

 

“Seamus, man, sit _still_ ,” Dean says, with more fondness – Seamus thinks – than exasperation.

 

Seamus rearranges himself in the chair and attempts, with limited success, to stop twitching. “Sorry.” Even still, his eyes range the room. He’s never been good at keeping still. Seems like these days he’s no good at looking at Dean head on, either.

 

Once he would have known which tone in Dean’s voice was the dominant one, fondness and exasperation, but that was years ago.

 

Dean now is taller than he was, which is a stupid change to pick up on, but also true. He carries himself differently, long and lean, looking more confident than he used to – maybe art school did that for him – but also ready to move, at any minute. It’s strange looking at him like a stranger would, without that closeness they had to fall into, a well of in-jokes and shared time that cushioned the silence. But then that’s why Seamus suggested him in the first place, when George said all his contractors were getting portraits done for WWW’s newest publicity stunt as they went international: to reconnect, to see what’s changed.

 

His smile is still the same, though.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean is kind of fucked.

 

God damn it, he sketched Seamus casually years ago, almost every time he drew something – it was easy, he knew Seamus’ face well enough, it was just something else to sketch – why should this be different? But it is.

 

It’s not that his face has changed that much, it’s just… He’s animated in a different way, now, all that relentless energy given direction – even if he still can’t stop tapping his feet distractedly. He looks like he knows who he is. It’s a disconcerting change from the Seamus Dean knew, quick to laugh, quick to react, all energy, almost shapeless.

 

It is also, unfortunately for Dean, immensely attractive. Seamus always has been. They were in each other’s space 24/7 back at Hogwarts, sharing in-jokes and a dorm and personal space, looking to each other like a compass to a pole, and maybe Dean never realised what was hiding in that. Not until they were separated and Seamus was a space next to him, an absence as strong as presence.

 

(There’s something else in the way Seamus holds himself, and Dean wonders how much they changed and diverged in their first year apart, the year when Dean learned to live on the run, always on the edge of getting caught, and Seamus learned to spit blood in the face of authority, to live in the space between blows.)

 

Seamus laughs at something he’s said, and Dean’s pencil flicks on the canvas, catching the quirk at the corner of the mouth, even as he stares, stares, _stares_.

 

* * *

 

 

“…except it turned out it _wasn’t_ Boomslang skin,” Seamus trails off, ending the anecdote there and watching – with some satisfaction – as Dean erupts into laughter, just like he used to, a great flash of white teeth and a crinkle around the eyes.

 

Seamus suddenly feels something like a twinge in his chest, but bigger, as if someone reached directly into his chest and squeezed some important organ until it stopped.

 

Shit, oh _shit_ , this did _not_ use to happen when he looked at Dean, back in the day. This is kind of new.

 

Except it’s ‘back in the day’ that’s the problem, isn’t it. A fleeting attraction – no matter how intense and sudden – does not do this. This is intense and sudden attraction _backed up_ by literally years’ worth of affection, an old, old store of trust.

 

This is so much heavier.

 

“So how much eyebrow did you lose in that explosion?” Dean says, when he’s done laughing, and Seamus manages to feel that twinge and feel like he’s floating at the same time. Heavy, hah. He could probably float straight through the ceiling and out into the stratosphere.

 

“None, actually,” he says cheerfully, “it turns out even I can learn how to dodge. What about you, any explosions in that fancy art school of yours?”

 

Dean grins, eyes flickering back to the canvas, hands flickering in motion, reflecting. “Not where I was working, usually, that tended to happen around the kilns. Wizarding pottery seems to get messy. Anyway, we had something better.”

 

“Blasphemy.” Seamus says it completely deadpan, and tries not to let a smile take over his mouth, because this is – this is _banter_ , is what this is. This is them buoyant, floating, buoying each other up. “How the hell do you justify that?”

 

Banter. It’s banter. It is not flirting. How can the conversation between two best friends which he took as normal for six years be flirting?

 

It really feels a lot like flirting.

 

Dean’s grin takes on evil dimensions. “Two words, mate: _wizarding paintball_.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Seamus is not flirting with you, Seamus is not flirting with you, Dean. Get a grip. Get. A grip._

 

Seamus’ face takes on that familiar socked-in-the-stomach look, then a delighted glint shows in his eyes. “ _No_. Oh, man, why didn’t we ever do that?”

 

_A grip, Dean. You should get one._

 

“OK, but seriously, Dean, how was art school?”

 

Dean shrugs. The eternal awkwardness of trying to sum up several varied years into a couple of vaguely entertaining sentences… “Good, I guess? I mean. Good. Yeah. I mean – there were bad moments, like, there were moments where my teachers would be telling me why I couldn’t do – whatever, and I’d know they were right, but still _really want to do_ whatever, and just kind of – sit there miserably not knowing what to do.”

 

“Oh. Yeah. That.” Seamus sounds surprisingly familiar with it. “Yeah, George gets that sometimes. I come in to deliver an order of fireworks and he’ll just be sitting there, head on the desk, like – he _knows_ the idea doesn’t work, but he can’t let go of it and he doesn’t know what to do to make it work.”

 

“What usually happens then?” The movement of his throat as he talks, gotta get that. _Ignoring the fact that you’ve probably drawn his throat ten times over by now._

 

Seamus’ voice takes on an unusually serious tone. “Well, sometimes I ask him what Fred would say.”

 

“And he’s OK with that?”

 

“Yeah, man.” Seamus looks at him, actually looks at him. Dean is mildly disconcerted. “Not talking about Fred, that’s like – keeping him embalmed, or something. The big family secret, you get me? George likes it when people talk about Fred, especially when it’s about the shop. Keeps him alive and working. Fred, I mean, although I guess George too.”

 

_Seamus_ , Dean reflects, _is capable of emotional sensitivity._

 

He is definitely not going to survive this.

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks later, Seamus comes back for the finished painting and actually stops in front of it and doesn’t say _anything_ for a good minute at least.

 

“Seamus? You OK?” Dean sounds worried. Dean is probably worrying that he fucked this up.

 

“Dean,” Seamus says, turning to him with a treacherous hope roaring in his heart and a _hell_ of a lot of confusion in his head, “I am not that handsome in real life.”

 

Dean mumbles something inaudible, appears to think better of it upon seeing Seamus’ look of confusion, takes  a deep breath, draws himself up (broad-shouldered, Seamus’ traitorous brain notes), and says, “I painted what I saw.”

 

The roar of hope in Seamus’ ears is as deafening as the sea. That sounds stupid. Seamus feels very stupid.

 

Seamus feels like he is about to do something very stupid.

 

“Dean,” Seamus says, “if this is a really stupid decision, punch me in the face,” and leans in.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean does not punch him in the face.

 

“That,” Dean says, kind of breathlessly, crinkling about the eyes and teeth flashing, “was the best decision you’ve ever made.”

 

“Yeah,” Seamus says. He is also out of breath, and his hair is kind of messy.

 

“Do you – want to get dinner?”

 

“Leaky Cauldron?”

 

“Leaky Cauldron.”

 

They break off into helpless laughter, and leave the room arm in arm.

 

(Not before getting Seamus’ hair a bit messier, though.)


End file.
